Because of You

by Cathy Maxwell

  Her legs opened in invitation. She was ready for him. She ached for his touch. When his hand swept up her thigh and stroked her, she closed her legs around him, wanting him there.

  He kissed her neck and whispered in her ear, “I have waited so long for this.” His fingers entered her, testing.

  At his intimate touch, Samantha wanted to cry out, but didn’t.

  Something was wrong. Something wasn’t right. In spite of the aching need she felt for him, she flinched, shying away.

  His hand stopped moving. “Sam, what is it? Did I hurt you?”

  She didn’t answer. What could she say? She didn’t understand herself.

  She looked up at him with puzzled eyes and then understood…Dear God—

  The realization struck like a flash of blinding light, brighter than any sun, exposing her.

  She truly was in love with him.

  That was the reason she had crossed the distance between the two bedrooms. Somewhere in their journey from Sproule to London, maybe even before, she’d fallen in love. It was so obvious, she was surprised she hadn’t recognized it sooner.

  But he did not love her.

  The thought filled her with an indescribable sadness.

  “Sam?” His voice sounded angry. He sat up, moving away from her. “You don’t want this, do you?”

  She shook her head no, tears starting to fill her eyes. He caught a tear on the tip of his finger.

  “Then why are you here?” he asked again.

  Samantha wasn’t sure of those reasons herself. The arguments that had seemed so sane and rational when she was in her bed were suddenly confusing, crazy, insane. Terrifying.

  Without his love in return, she felt as if she prostituted herself. But she also felt another emotion, a stronger one: fear.

  No other man had ever made her knees so weak or had so completely captured her imagination or had kept her grounded by listening to her talk about her doubts.

  Yale could do that, all of it.

  And when he kissed her, it was like stars shooting into the heavens.

  He’d warned her once against falling in love with him…but she hadn’t heeded his warning.

  Now, she would be doubly hurt when the time came for him to cast her aside. Why had she not protected her heart? Lying here naked beside him, she felt common, cheap. She could be any woman to him.

  Her breath caught in her throat in a small sound of despair.

  “Damn!” Yale swore viciously, and rolled out of the bed on the other side. He came to his feet. “Why are you here?” he demanded. He was still proudly erect. He looked down at himself, swore again, this time colorfully, and pulled the sheet off the bed, wrapping it around his waist.

  Samantha reached for the satin bedspread to hide her own nakedness. Her body still throbbed from the heat of his touch; her cheeks burned with embarrassment.

  Yale raked his hair back with his hand. He stood in the moonlight and she could see every line on his face. “What are you doing to me, Samantha? And why?”

  “Doing to you? I don’t understand—”

  “Oh, you certainly do,” he said, ruthlessly cutting her off. “You know exactly what you are doing, and that’s playing me for a fool! I’ve just spent a good portion of the last week burning for you, and now tonight you walk in here, take off your clothes, and practically beg me to take you. But you don’t want to be here, do you? You started, but you changed your mind.”

  This was worse than she had imagined. She felt dishonorable, a fraud. “I will finish. Come back to bed. I’ll do it.”

  “Damn you, Sam, damn you, damn you, damn you.” He stormed across the room, having to kick the tail of the sheet out of his way and then realizing how ridiculous he looked, he sat down in an armchair by the window.

  She came up on her knees. “I don’t understand why you are so angry,” she said around the lump forming in her throat.

  He looked up at her, his hard, glittering gaze boring straight into her. “Did Wayland put you up to this?”

  His accurate guess caught her unawares. Too late did she realize her face gave her away whether she spoke or not.

  He gave a half laugh and sat back in the chair. “Why am I not surprised? My brother. He started with little digs at first. Belittling words about Rogue Shipping and my present status in the world. Nothing serious, only letting me know that perhaps I’m not as well off as I wish to be. But then this morning, he let me have it full bore.”

  “Is that when you were arguing?”

  “Oh yes. He announced that it was time I lived up to my responsibilities and stopped pretending to be a businessman. God, he sounded just like Father.”

  He stared at Samantha a second. “And I’m not surprised he’d try and use you. That is why you are here, isn’t it? Because Wayland encouraged you to come to me.”

  “Yes.” It was hard to say the word.

  Yale nodded. “I’ve been in England less than two weeks, and already I’m surrounded by the hypocrisy.” He sat forward. “But I didn’t expect it from you, Sam. I thought we understood each other. I had faith in your honesty.”

  His words inspired guilt. She felt a need to defend herself. “You question my honesty? You married me under an assumed name!”

  “And you’ll never forgive me for it, will you? Tell me, Sam, what did Wayland use to convince you to throw yourself at me? Money? A better house than I could afford? What? I would have given you all those things and more any one of the last several nights instead of sleeping on the floor, playing the monk.”

  “He told me it was my duty.”

  “Your duty?” Yale repeated. He stood up. “I don’t want you in my bed out of duty. I don’t want some guilt-ridden vicar’s daughter weeping as I labor over her like a peasant. I’m not without honor, Sam. No matter what my brother and family believe.”

  A wave of shame rolled through her. “Yale, please, it’s not what you think. I just wanted—” She broke off before confessing her innermost desire. She wanted a baby. He’d accuse her of worse mistreatment if he knew the truth. And then he’d never believe what lay in her heart.

  And she could never tell him.

  When she didn’t speak, the set of his face hardened. Without another word, he turned to his wardrobe and began getting dressed.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “That should be obvious.”

  “But why? Where are you going?”

  “Does it bloody matter?” He angrily stomped his foot in his boot, putting on first one and then the other.

  “Yale…” She searched for words. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand—”

  “Leave it, Samantha. Not another word. Just leave it.” On that, he opened the door and marched out into the hall.

  His booted feet made no sound on the hallway carpet, but she could sense his movement. She waited, hardly daring to breathe. In her mind’s eye, she could see him going down the stairs and across the foyer, and then opening the door. She could almost hear it slam behind him.

  He was gone.

  Just as she’d feared.

  He’d left her.

  Samantha rolled herself up in his bedspread, buried her face in his pillow, and cried.

  Yale didn’t care where he went. He strode out of his brother’s house and took the first left until he came to the end of that street and turned again, this time to the right. And turned at another block, and then walked and walked and walked. He’d forgotten his hat and overcoat but didn’t even feel the cold winter air.

  The most errant part of his body was still stiff and erect and it only made him angrier that he’d wanted her so much.

  Sam! He could curse the day he’d met her. She was driving him to madness. One minute she was all moral righteousness, and the next she was doing his family’s bidding, offering herself like some harem slave.

  But then, he realized with a snort, she couldn’t be anything other than what she was. He wasn’t surprised her conscience had gotten the better o
f her. She could no more play the whore than he could the beggar—and it was time Wayland and all the other dukes of Ayleborough understood that fact!

  The worst of it was, he wanted Sam. Memories of the hours they had spent in bed together that first night were burned into his mind. Her passion rivaled his own—when she wasn’t feeling guilty!

  After a good half hour of walking, he finally started to calm down and came face-to-face with one hard fact: he wanted Samantha as he’d never wanted another woman before.

  He ached from wanting her.

  He’d rather be drawn and quartered than feel the way he did now. Oh, there were a good many things he admired about her…one minute she exasperated, another she challenged, and in the next she worked her way into his heart—

  Yale almost stumbled over his own feet. He came to halt.

  What the bloody hell was he thinking?

  His heart remained free, unfettered. He was a self-made man, completely independent of the society, country, and family that had bred him.

  And yet…he wanted to be around Sam.

  He actually treasured those nights he’d spent on the floor of her room feeling a bit like some sort of chivalrous knight—

  Dear God, it was happening! A few more days with Samantha and he’d be daffy in love!

  Yale wanted to roar with frustration.

  He began walking again, his pace brisk.

  He couldn’t be in love. Love was like thunderbolts and lightning—he hadn’t felt any thunderbolts with Sam, not even a sizzle…well, maybe a sizzle, he amended, remembering the scene in his bedroom. Actually, more than a sizzle—but not a thunderbolt.

  Love was the sort of thing where men and women mooned about over each other. He and Sam argued. Of course, he found her spirit invigorating. Intriguing, even.

  But love never lasted, no matter what the poets said. Yale couldn’t imagine himself shackled to one woman. There! At last a statement his conscience couldn’t challenge.

  Of course, he really didn’t want other women right now. The only one he longed for was Samantha.

  “Blasted woman,” he said under his breath.

  Wayland had seen it. In some mysterious manner, his older brother had divined that Samantha was the one person Yale wanted to please.

  He’d have to hide his feelings better. Ignore her. Better yet, set sail for his spice plantation in Ceylon. Whatever he did, he couldn’t let her know how deeply his affections ran for her. Ever.

  In fact, he was just starting to realize how deep they were himself.

  Only the oceans knew such depth!

  Yale stopped his furious walking. Where had such a poetic notion come from? He avoided poems. Avoided poets! And yet here he was, thinking in poetry.

  His hands hung loosely at his side and he felt suddenly tired and strangely defeated, both alien notions.

  He was in danger of falling in love with Sam…and she did not return it. She saw him as duty, a responsibility.

  He didn’t want to be a duty; he wanted to be a lover. Maybe that was it. Perhaps if they were lovers he would tire of her and return to his normal self. It was a possibility.

  Slowly he became aware of his surroundings. He didn’t know how far he’d walked or what time it was.

  The streets here were dark. Too dark. Little light spilled out from what few grimy windows were lit. The air smelled of rubbish and human waste. In the distance a dog barked and a woman laughed, the sounds eerily alike.

  This wasn’t the London he remembered. It was more like the bowels of Calcutta.

  He walked on at slower place, the hair on the back of his neck warning him of impending danger.

  A hard shove against his back sent him stumbling into the ink-black shadows. Struggling for his balance, he felt a small hand reach for his purse.

  Pickpockets!

  Landing heavily on the ground, he heard one pair of footsteps running off. The thief’s accomplice jumped over Yale’s body and went running in the same direction down a narrow alley.

  Yale cursed. He’d been in hellholes from Bombay to Macao and kept his purse. He had not come to London to be filched.

  He was on his feet in a blink of an eye and running after the thieves. He tripped over small crates stacked in the alley but easily caught himself and pursued. The alley came out on a narrow street.

  He feared he’d lost them.

  “The cove’s chasing us!” a voice cried out. “Split up!”

  Yale heard one set of running footsteps go in one direction and another in the opposite. He guessed which one was the bastard with his purse and followed him.

  The hard exercise and the thrill of pursuit were exactly what he needed to clear his mind. His legs ate up the ground between him and his quarry.

  Then he had a break. The boy ran across a broad street toward a park. Moonlight flashed like a beacon on the pickpocket’s shirt.

  Yale was right behind him. As the pickpocket ran toward the dark shadows of trees, Yale launched himself up into the air and tackled the boy. The two of them grunted as they hit the ground with a thud.

  Yale grabbed hold of the lad’s collar and gave him a shake as he brought both of them to their feet.

  He whirled the thief around to face him and found himself staring into the wide, frightened eyes of a child.

  A thieving child, he remembered, recovering from his surprise. “I want my purse. Give it back.”

  “I d-don’t know anything about a purse.”

  Yale gave him a rough shake. “I want my purse.”

  The boy’s teeth were chattering. Yale didn’t know if it was from the cold or from fear. The lad wore little more than a thin shirt, breeches and a ragged coat.

  He pulled the boy into the moonlight and pinched his ribs. “I haven’t seen such a scrawny lad even in India.”

  “Please, s-sir. L-let me g-go.”

  “My purse.” He held out his hand.

  “Arnie took it,” the lad blurted out. “He got it from me while we were running. Back there, when you ran into those wooden crates.”

  “And where is Arnie?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Yale bent down to look him in the face. “Yes, you do.”

  “I don’t! I don’t! I swear, sir.”

  “Well, then perhaps the magistrate can get it out of you.”

  “No!” the boy cried, truly terrified now. “You can’t take me to the magistrate. If you do, he’ll throw me in prison or deport me.”

  “Which is not a bad idea,” Yale agreed ruthlessly.

  “But me sister,” the lad said, huge tears welling in his eyes. “She’ll starve. I’m the only one that takes care of her. Mum said I had to.”

  “And where is your mother now?” He didn’t believe a word the little bugger had to say and gave him another shake for effect.

  “She’s dead, sir. Took ill with the influenza and died.”

  Now he had Yale’s attention. “Recently?”

  “No, sir. She died a year ago. I’ve been taking care of us.”

  “By picking pockets?”

  “It beats sweeping chimneys.”

  “I can’t agree with you.”

  “I tried it, sir. I hired on as a chimney boy. But the sweeps are mean, and once I got stuck in the chimney and the sweep was going to go off and leave me while the man we did the job for started a fire. The sweep had his money. He didn’t care if I got burned or not.”

  Yale frowned. He’d heard of boys burning before. “How old is your sister?”

  “She’s eight, sir.”

  “You speak well. Did your mother teach you?”

  “She was a seamstress. Me pa was a clerk for G. G. Dobbins and Son until he climbed a ladder and fell and hit his head.”

  “Did it kill him?”

  “He never was quite right and died soon after. Mum said it was freak thing that happened. I don’t remember because I was too young.”

  “How old are you now?” Yale asked, thinking the boy looked barely t
en.

  “I’m twelve. Old enough to be a man.”

  “And old enough to steal from another man’s pocket and cry about it,” Yale shot back.

  His words reminded the boy of his peril. “Please don’t take me to the magistrate, sir.”

  “Can you get my purse back?” The boy’s cheeks were gaunt. In the Orient, he had seen hunger before. He had not expected it on the streets of London.

  The boy shook his head. “Arnie and the others would kill me for trying to take it back from ’em, even if I knew where they were. I’d be dead before morning.”

  For a moment, Yale suspected the boy of high drama until he looked into his eyes. His fears were real.

  “What is your name?” Yale asked.

  The boy wasn’t going to tell him until Yale gave him another shake. “Terrance.”

  “Terrance.” Yale tested the name. “Not exactly the name for a thief.”

  “I am not a thief, sir,” Terrance said, two large tears rolling down his cheeks. “I just started it because of me sister. If she doesn’t get good food and someplace warm, she’ll die.”

  The tears running down his dirty face reminded Yale of the tears that had welled in Samantha’s eyes…and made him feel culpable in the lad’s bad luck.

  A part of Yale warned him he shouldn’t believe a word the lad said. But another part, this new part touched by Samantha, wondered if the story was true—and he couldn’t turn his back on the boy if it was.

  He tipped the lad’s chin up to look him in the eye. “Well, Terrance, I’m out my purse and in a foul mood for it. Let’s go and find that sister of yours.”

  Terrance immediately started to struggle, attempting to break Yale’s hold. “No, sir! You can’t. She didn’t do anything. She’s a wee thing who’s never done anything bad. Take me to the magistrate, but leave her alone, I beg you.”

  Yale jerked Terrance’s arm. “I’m not going to harm your sister. But I believe a man should do anything but be a thief.”

  “I’ve tried, sir. It’s either that or starve.”

  Yale knelt down to his level. “And if I found you something to do where you wouldn’t starve, would you continue to steal?”

  “No, sir, I wouldn’t.”

  Yale studied him a moment before saying, “All right. I believe you.” And he did. “Now come, let us go fetch your sister.”